There Are No Maps For This
by id8a
Summary: [iris/barry] the facts are these: barry allen is in love with her. her best friend is in love with her. has been in love with her. for years. years. years. iris west is confused. and bewildered. and all the variation on a theme. ONESHOT. COMPLETE.


**notes**: so this is like a post-ep meditation fic for _the man in the yellow suit_? yes? yeah, let's just say yes and move on. it's something i've meaning to write _then_ but had no time. in short, i have lots of iris west feelings and this is what i did with them.

* * *

**there are no maps for this**

* * *

.

.

.

Let's talk memories first. Trust Iris on this, okay, it's easier. And less complicated. Far, _far _less complicated.

Oh, so much less complicated.

.

.

.

.

.

Okay, so then, it was like this:

.

.

Iris burst into Barry's room, plopping down on a carpet across from the startled boy and the mess of books that sang with numbers.

"Wow. So you're really good at math, ha, and all this science stuff?" she asked, impressed and amused, popping a piece of gum in her mouth.

He looked sheepishly at her, frowned and hesitated with a _yes?_

She giggled. He blushed. She blew a bubble and it popped.

"Want one?" she grinned with a question, offering him a piece and adding, "it's really good, you can blow the biggest bubbles."

His eyes darted from her outstretched hand, to her face, to her hand again.

He looked puzzled. She thought she wanted to laugh.

Barry frowned then, again. "Why -" he stopped, his head ducking. "Did your dad tell you to be nice to me?"

Now, silly boy, Iris really wanted to laugh. But one look at him and she thought better of it. Instead, she watched him, really watched him with all that she knew. Something moved inside her, something warm with weight.

She gave him a gentle smile.

"No, he didn't," she said, serious. "Actually, he did," she corrected herself and then hurried with the rest. "But that's not why i'm here, " and continued pointedly, "or why i'm offering you the piece of my _favorite_ gum," - yeah, yeah, so Iris had a short, sort of, strawberry bubble gum obsession. Didn't we all? "-especially considering my Halloween stock is running low."

Barry's mouth started to curl.

"I like you, Barry Allen. You're pretty cool," she grinned at him like a nudge. "And I always wanted a genius for a friend."

He smiled and blushed, plastering his gaze to his books.

"You're cool too," he said, quietly. "And really smart," he added hurriedly.

She chuckled and moved to lie on her back. "Of course I am," and she blew another bubble - a really, really big one, a spectacular one actually - and it blew up, spectacularly, all over her face.

And it's then that Barry laughed. Really laughed; like doubling over in laughter laughed.

"Shut up!"

But here's the thing you should know: she didn't't mind at all that he kept laughing - even though it wasn't _that_ funny - while she struggled to free her face from the sweet and sugary mask, because it was the first time, she thought, that she had ever heard the sound. Barry needed to laugh all the time, she decided.

(Iris West always tastes strawberry when she hears Barry Allen laugh. Weird, right?)

"So, do I get this _amazing_ gum or what?" Barry asked, laughter still coming out in puffs of giggles.

"Never mock the gum," she warned, tossing him a piece.

He snorted and popped a piece in his mouth.

"Thanks," he said with a grateful smile.

Iris knew it wasn't the gum he was thanking her for.

.

.

See, nothing complicated. Nothing at all.

(_Although_, with what she knows _now_, maybe, maybe _that_ was the beginning of - but wait, we're not there yet.)

.

.

.

And after, it quickly became like this:

.

.

"You're my best friend."

"I am?" his eyes were big and bright.

Iris rolled her eyes fondly. There was "of course" with a _duh_ and a smile.

Barry grinned, really wide.

"You're my best friend too."

Iris took his hand with "I know" and laced their fingers together.

.

.

See, so simple.

(Or not, you know, when she thinks about it _now_. With all that she knows now maybe it never was as simple as _she _thought it was. Because now - )

.

.

.

.

.

Yeah. _Now_.

.

.

.

.

.

Oh god, okay, so now -

.

.

.

.

.

Now the facts are -

\- actually, before we start, you should seriously know something about these facts. These facts are, definitely _should_ be, improbable, impossible and really, bound to break some greater universal law. No, really! Like, any minute now the sun is gonna turn purple and the sky will be green. Or something. Just you wait.

.

.

.

.

.

Anyways.

.

.

.

.

.

The facts.

The facts are these: Barry Allen is in love with her. Her best friend is in love with her. Has been in love with her. For years. Years. _Years._ Yeah, let that sink in.

And Iris West is nowhere near being able to process that particular concept.

There's a stretch of days behind her and hours upon hours upon more hours of turning those facts inside her head. Over and over and over again. The repetition should've accomplished something, you would think, like bumped her closer to some kind of hazy acceptance? Pushed her away from a complete sense of disbelief? Should've yes, but didn't. Oh, no. Not at all.

It all just feels -

\- impossible. Yeah, really really impossible, you know?

Sure, and Iris wouldn't hesitate to admit that, the entire concept of being beyond the bounds of possibility isn't what it used to be, what with random people breaking rules of nature and laws of physics all over town, on a weekly basis.

But that's one thing, okay?

Her best friend, _Barry_, revealing he's in love with her, well, that's something else _entirely_. You get it, right? I mean, that's like a bear knocking at her door and casually asking where he can buy the best honey in town.

.

.

.

.

.

Okay.

.

.

.

.

.

So now that we've covered the facts you can see how perfectly normal it is - okay, okay not normal but - expected, if anything, and really just understandable, under this new and odd circumstances, that Iris chose to take the longest possible route to the coffee shop; along the old railway line, through an alley and then another, under the bridge, circling the square, and across the park. Longer route, after all, means more time to prepare herself for what's coming. Assuming, naturally, there's a way to prepare for that. For the conversation, first one since -

\- well, you know.

She sighs.

Oh, come on. We've all been there, avoiding what cannot be avoided. You don't have to be a genius to understand the psychology of it all. Delaying inevitable in the service of shoving your head in the sand.

Four days. It's been four days where they managed to avoid each other with stumbuling excuses. And for now, for this stretch of time, she can try and indulge in that foolish foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, nothing will change. Or that she'll just, you know - _wake up_.

Yeah, not much chance for that. And don't worry, Iris is not really holding her breath either.

The park is brimming with people, she notices, but beyond that has no attention for details and her surroundings. Her feet feel heavy in her boots though. Her shoulders are tight.

Iris is a smart girl, she knows, just this act of dawdling - ridiculous really - is proof enough of a shift. Oh, you want to know more? How about these knots in her stomach? Or three restless nights? Or complete lack of clarity? And, of course, let's not forget the most definitive evidence of all, the cold sense of loss.

She passes a few pigeons who, unfazed and cool, are munching on a piece of bread. A frisbee lands at her feet, stopping her in her tracks. She crouches down to pick it up. It's purple. She looks around and sees a boy, no more than eleven, running towards her. She hands him the frisbee and the boy smiles a _thanks! _She watches him jog back towards the girl with pigtails and a wide grin.

She adjusts the bag on her shoulder and continues on her way.

Iris feels like she has lost something. She doesn't ask what, or why, choosing to keep herself from that line of thought.

Coming out of the park, a turn around the corner and she stops at the crossing. Red light. She can see the coffee shop from where she's standing. _In love in love._ It's whipping through her head again.

Those knots tighten. Stupid.

The wind picks up and her hair flies in her face. She tosses it behind her shoulder. The traffic light turns green. She doesn't move. Few people glance at her. She doesn't care.

She wishes she could go back. That's the problem. She sensed something, she did, she knew he was hiding something, bottling something up inside and she wanted to know what. But now, now all she can think about is going back. Rewind. Reverse. Unlearn. _I know I wanted to know, but tell me tomorrow, tell me later, don't tell me at all -_

But that's selfish, Iris is aware. Disgustingly selfish really and she can feel the shame swimming, twisting in her gut. But the thing is, well, the thing is she feels pushed into something; something she can't even begin to describe, something she doesn't understand but can't really ignore.

She sighs. Again.

Still, she thinks, it's not the fair feeling, or the feeling she wants to have either. She can't even imagine what it's like to live with that kind of locked up longing. She's proud of him, too, really, only able to imagine what kind of bravery it took to open up, finally, and let her know. Let her _see_.

And yet, his confession has done something to her sense of self, and that too is something that stands as undefined and inescapable. She's lost. Is feeling lost. And unsettled. Confused. Disoriented. Yeah, you get the drift.

The traffic light is red again. The woman next to her is arguing with someone on the phone. Iris doesn't pay attention. She looks across the street; there's the sandwich shop, the bookstore, and then the coffee shop. She checks her watch, absently watching the seconds go and go and go and go. She wonders if Barry is already inside. Probably isn't, she assumes. It's early still - surprisingly - and Barry isn't Barry if he isn't late.

The corners of her mouth curl.

Life is unpredictable, life twist and turns and spins you around, she gets that. She _loves_ that; life as an adventure, grand, exciting and fantastic in all its mystery. But something has to stay as unchangeable, something has to be set in stone, right? And Barry, that relationship, that friendship is her constant, that thing she depends s0 heavily on. And the thought, just the thought of losing that is -

\- well it's terrifying, okay? _Terrifying_. And Iris is not some scaredy-cat, understand that. Still, she does feel rattled.

Someone behind her sneezes. Her nose wrinkles. Her throat is dry.

The light turns green.

And she walks.

On the other side, she spots a man being led by eight, no, nine dogs, their pink tongues lolling happily. She can't help it and chuckles, only to smile and coo when a black cocker spaniel trots straight towards her and starts sniffing her. She bents a little and pets the dog, the man apologising with an overwhelmed expression on his face. She shakes her head with _it's okay - _it is a welcome diversion from her unfocused thoughts - and scratches the dog - _Bear_, the man informs her of the name - behind his ear before he's being pulled away by his furry, adorable buddies. Poor guy, she thinks, amused.

But then the distraction is over and those knots are back.

Something prickles at her then, heavy, an awareness that she has no idea, no idea at all, about what she's going to say to him. She wishes she knew what she _should_ say. Is there something to say? Someone should write a book. Or a pamphlet. There should definitely be a step by step program, she muses.

And then sighs.

A loud screech of tires, behind her at the corner, startles her.

This is ridiculous, she thinks. There's a slight shake of her head as well. It's Barry. _Barry_. They have years and memories and more memories, an endless catalogue of memories, and she shouldn't be nervous, _this _nervous, despite -

\- yeah.

Oh, stop being a wuss, she orders herself. Seriously. She feels annoyed with herself, too, and this jittery desire to just whirl around and bolt is beyond irritating. This isn't who she is. This isn't who _they_ are.

Iris straightens, walking in.

.

.

.

.

.

Well, here's to not knowing what to do.

.

.

.

.

.

Inside, she spots him immediately, bent over a table, ankles locked with his hands wrapped around a mug. The sight is so familiar and she breathes. Her lips curl. It's him, she thinks. It's Barry.

It's going to be okay, she tells herself too, like a reassurance, ignoring those stupid, _stupid_ knots in her stomach. Seriously, enough already.

"Hey", she greets.

Her grip on the strap of her bag tightens.

He looks up, blinking. "Hi. Hey. Um, hi." And then one more, "Hi."

He smiles then ducks but she catches the blush.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologises, hanging her bag on the back of the chair and sitting across from him.

"You're not", he says, straightening. "I mean, I was early actually."

"Early, ha?"

They share a short laugh but it falls quickly and they dip into an awkward silence.

Four days, she reminds herself. It seems longer.

He's looking down at his mug, his fingers drifting along the rim. She watches as his teeth sink into his lip.

Iris feels herself tense and searches through her head, scrambling for something to say, something that would make this right. Or better. Or something. Anything, really, but this uneasy silence. She thought, hoped that once she sees him that the right words would come. But that's not happening, she has nothing; well, aside from the lame repertoire of _I don't know what to say_, the feeling of slipping certainties and _he's in love with me _spinning dizzyingly in her head. Yeah, lame.

They catch each other's gaze. There's a half-smile. From him. From her.

"I- I'm -" he starts.

Then stops.

She watches his mouth open and close. He sighs looking away nervously. His hands curl around the mug, his knuckles whitening. His shoulders seem tight, like her own. He seems uncomfortable too, and worried, like she is.

She swallows and thinks _coffee! _like some miracle answer. Caffeine, yes, she needs caffeine.

"I'm gonna get coffee," she tells him, taking the wallet out of her bag.

In line, she can feel his eyes on her; and knowing what she knows she's not sure how she feels about it, how she should feel about it. There's that turn and twist in her stomach and she presses her hand against her dress. She rolls her shoulders, straightening. She sighs too and it's shaky.

She orders her coffee black. Not her usual order, not by a long shot, but she feels, hopes, counts on it really, that the undiluted coffee might help her recover some of the clarity that she's lost.

She returns to the table with her cup and a plate of cookies that she places in the middle. She sits and shrugs out of her coat, hanging it on the back of her chair. She puts the wallet is back in her bag. She's stealing seconds, avoiding looking at him. She can feel him watching her but he looks down and away when she meets his eyes.

Barry leans on the table then, his elbows down on the surface, and rubs the back of his neck. There's a raise of laughter from somewhere behind her. She turns and notices that the coffee shop is half-empty. The space seems bigger, somehow. She feels exposed.

She picks her cup and pulls it to her mouth, blowing at the liquid. She shifts in her seat. The table seems small. Definitely smaller than the last time.

They share a series of wavering smiles and brisk glances; something they're gonna laugh about one day.

Or so she hopes.

She takes a sip then and - _ugh, gross!_ \- her nose wrinkling in disgust. There's a quiet chuckle from across her blended with slight confusion and quirk of his eyebrows.

"Too strong," she explains and takes a bite out of one of the cookies. "I don't know how people drink this stuff." It's _so_ bitter, she now remembers, looking down at her cup again. It's like drinking ant spray. Forget lifting the fog of confusion, this is undrinkable. But then Barry is handing her three pockets of sugar which she eagerly dumps into the mug. "Thanks."

She frames the cup with both her hands and brings it to her mouth. She takes another sip and smiles happily.

"Better?"

"Mhmm." She smiles against the rim.

She brings the cup down. "So-" she pauses, straightening in her seat. She swallows. "How are you?"

God, they _really_ have to laugh about this one day. I mean, it's prime stuff; the simplest of simple questions are coming out stiff and stumbling, her voice sounds funny, and to top it all off, they're breathing this ood, fumbling and uneasy silence.

"Good," he tells her and clears his throat. His eyes are glued to the mug in his hands. There's a quick quick glance at her. "Fine, you know, busy." He shrugs too, drawing back.

_Yeah, not buying it_, she wants to say. _Try again_. It's what she would say if things were now as she has always known them but they are so painfully, comically - it's not either or - so _obviously_ not and -

"And you?" he asks. "How are you? I mean, are you okay?" His words are clumsy and warm, his expression as well.

Her answer is quick. "Yeah, oh yeah. Fine. Busy, too. I-" she stops.

There's a half-smile from him. He's not buying it either. It makes her feel comforted. Her lips turn softly.

Carefully, she takes a deep breath.

"I mean -" she pauses to look at him. She wants to be honest, needs to be honest and give what she can. "I'm-" another pause. Then a sigh. "I don't know, Barry."

The admission is heavy.

"I don't know," she repeats. She shrugs too, as if to say, this is all uncharted territory I'm stumbling through.

She watches his hand reach for hers, it stops though and pulls back, only to wrap again around the mug. She sees concern setting around his eyes. He's looking at her like he's done something wrong.

"I'm -"

"Don't even go there," she cuts him off. "I mean it, okay?"

He nods and smiles; it's of, I'm nervous but I'm fighting through it, variety and she gives him one in return. Something like understanding passes between them.

Barry looks away then, his arms crossing against his chest. She watches his fingers slide over the sleeve of his shirt and pick at the fabric. She takes another sip of her coffee.

He turns his gaze back at her. "It won't get weird," the words tumble out. "Us. This, I mean. It won't get weird." She can't help it and gives him an incredulous look. Her lips twitch. "What?" he asks, fidgeting.

"It's already weird," she tells him. She shrugs as well. Somehow, she thinks, she might laugh because weirdness is palpable. Besides, now that the clarity is scarce she really can't afford to ignore the obvious. "Well, it _is. _But that's okay -" she continues. "Or expected at least. It would be more weird if it weren't weird. And we'll get through this, we'll figure it out, I know we will."

Despite the firmness of her words she starts to feel slivers of doubt climbing up her spine. She searches his eyes for some kind of reassurance. It's what she craves; and some familiarity that she can wrap herself around with.

"Yeah, we'll figure it out," he says with earnest. His gaze is soft and sure.

She lets herself breathe.

"I know." and again, "I know," because she needs to hear herself say it.

She reaches for him then, curling her fingers around his wrist but when he looks at her she catches crossing of something across his face and her throat closes up. She pulls her hand away, fixing her gaze to the window.

How could she have been so blind, so completely, totally blind? It's Barry, Barry with no poker face, Barry who wears his heart on his wrinkled sleeve. She should've known, she thinks. She feels like she should've picked up on it. But didn't. Well, so much for being observant.

"I just -" she starts. Then stops. There's guilt climbing into her throat. And a profound sense of disappointment with herself. "I just-" she starts again. "I - I didn't know, Barry. I never -"

"I know," he cuts her off, his mouth twitching. He almost looks amused, she thinks. "I know," he says again softly, seriously.

She manages a tiny smile.

Iris West is protective of Barry, that's the thing to understand, always has been and more with time, knowing things like personal histories and what weights he carried all these years. She thinks of him smiling into books and his experiments, and how he never stops forging light, no matter what.

She turns her gaze at him and sees him eat a cookie.

She thinks about the ache she saw in his eyes, the ache she can't unsee, the one that's there because of her. Her own eyes start to burn; they close and then open. The truth is, she swallows, the truth is she hurt him. Unintentionally, unknowingly but still, the guilt is there.

"Still I -" she feels like she has to say it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Please."

"But I -"

"No, really, that's not why I told you. I don't want - I never -"

It's her turn now for, "I know."

They look at each other then, really look at each other, and laugh. It's nervous but melting into a sense of relief too. She can feel the tension thinning and relaxes in her seat.

"Who knew you were so good at keeping secrets?" she grins softly. "I mean, do you remember-" the guilt that washes suddenly over his face makes her stop. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth slides open but nothing comes out.

"I'm sorry," he says then and it sounds heavy. Too heavy. She sees him swallow thickly. There is guilt in his eyes, _too_ much guilt. He looks away.

She shakes her head. "No, if I can't be sorry neither can you." She waits for him to look at her and then offers him a reassuring smile. He nods slightly but doesn't smile. "Okay?" She levels her gaze at him then kicks his legs a little beneath the table; to punctuate her point. His lips curl then. She nods, "Good."

Still, she feels disquiet thrumming beneath her skin. She turns her gaze to the window, and then outside, searching for something to focus on.

She watches people walk by, sees few cabs resting at the corner and then her eyes settle on the bakery across the street, obscured slightly by the sun, and sitting snugly in between the pharmacy and the flower shop.

The memory tickles at her and she hides herself in it for a moment: two kids, the girl taller than the boy, one rainy saturday afternoon and one memorable cake.

Her lips curl.

Oh, you want to know more?

Fine, okay okay, hold your horses.

.

.

.

.

.

It went something like this:

.

.

.

"We should just make one then!" Iris remembers herself declaring, and how pretty proud of herself she felt too for coming up with such a brilliant idea.

"A cake?" Barry asked, surprised but clearly intrigued.

She grinned, her eyes dancing, "A-ha."

"You know how?" he asked too with awe.

Already on her way to the kitchen, the decision made, she shot him an _of course I do _look.

.

.

Full disclosure? She didn't know how. Not really. I mean, she had never _made _a cake before, if you want to be technical about it. But she had seen them being made on those colorful cooking shows, and really, she was thinking, how hard can it be? Because it hadn't seemed hard at all, it'd looked like fun. And after a sucky week, a really sucky _sucky_ week they had had, she just wanted to have fun. With Barry. And have cake.

What could have possibly gone wrong, right?

Well, funny you should ask. (And no, there wasn't fire involved if that's what you are thinking.)

.

.

Five hours later and the kitchen was a _mess_ with sticky layers and lingering laughter and the two of them were in the hospital. A mild case of food poisoning. Expired eggs, the doctor guessed but really -

.

.

.

.

.

_Iris!_ pushes her out of her thoughts back to the present. "Where did you go?" Barry asks with laughter in his voice. "You totally spaced out."

She looks down at her hands and can almost feel the layer of flour coating them. She laughs and shakes her head.

"A little back."

"How far?"

"Our first adventure in baking."

He laughs then, sinking into his seat. "You mean, the worst cake in the history of baking?"

She rolls her eyes. "Please, it didn't taste _that_ bad."

"Define bad," he shoots back. "Besides, that's kinda not the point."

She feigns offended and takes the last two cookes of the plate. "Just for that," she says with a quick tilt of her head.

"You're a lot better now, " he grins cheekily, teasing her.

She scoffs. "Oh, shut up! I'm a fabulous baker and you know it." She takes a bite out of a cookie.

"I don't know, your souffles could use some work," he throws at her.

She purses her lips. "Oh really? So that's how it's gonna be, ha?"

"Mhmm," he nods, grinning.

"Okay, wise guy, fine. But the next time I make your favorite brownies you get none."

He chuckles and holds his hands up. They both laugh.

He smiles too. "That was a fun day," he admits wistfully.

"Yeah, yeah it was" she agrees, wistful as well.

"Well, not the hospital part."

She rolls her eyes. "Wimp."

They laugh again.

.

.

.

.

.

But the thing is, she remembers that part fondly too:

.

.

Her dad was crouching down in front of them, a wreck of relief and what she then thought was anger but now recognizes as worry, demanding to know whose idea it had been.

"Mine," she confessed, feeling disappointed with herself, guilty and really just stupid.

But Barry was quick with "No, it was mine." His hand took hers without hesitation, looking straight at her dad.

And it was then, of course, that series of _no, he's lying it was my fault_ and _no, she's lying it was all me_ until Joe West laughed, pulling them into a hug and, _what am i gonna do with you two, ha?_

.

.

.

.

.

They're quiet. And it's softer quiet now, far less stifling, the kind she can breathe in. She watches him as he takes a sip of his coffee. There's a small smile, warm and steady. She moves her gaze to the window. Yes, she thinks, hopes, yes they can still be them. Just Barry and Iris. Iris and Barry.

.

.

.

.

.

She returns her eyes back at him now.

Not to over exaggerate for the sake of melodrama - really, Iris is so _not_ a fan of those - but she can't imagine her life without him. She doesn't want to imagine her life without him. Not for a second. Not again. But before she can stop it she's being pulled into a memory. She tries to curve herself away from it but already there's a lump in her throat and her chest tightens. Her eyes burn. She has too look away.

When he got hurt, she swears, she was sure she was gonna _stop_. Just stop. She'll never forget the feeling of that thick, drowning panic, how her heart trashed against its bars, how the linings of her ribs were cracking. She cried that night at the hospital, and only then. Crying meant thinking about losing him, crying meant acknowledging that possibility and she refused, she _refused _to go there.

But Iris West knows what it feels like to breathe with a clenched breath. It's that knowledge that she carries quietly with her, always.

"Iris," Barry calls gently, eyeing her with naked concern. He leans forward too. "Wha - what's wrong?"

She blinks. Shakes her head. And reaches for him, her fingers curling around his knuckles. She squeezes. "I don't want to lose you," she says. It tastes urgent and thick. "I can't, Barry. I- you're my best friend and-"

"You won't." He's serious. His gaze is soft, warm. "Iris, you won't okay. You won't. You're my best friend too and you're stuck with me."

She nods and breathes. She watches as he turns his palm into her. His fingers start to sweep over her knuckles.

"We're stuck with each other."

"We're stuck with each other," he echoes.

They share a smile. His mouth opens but a loud shatter startles them. They jump a little and laugh. Iris turns and sees broken cups on the floor. Barry pulls his hand away. She swallows a sigh and thinks to look at her watch.

"Ooh, I have to go," she tells him.

He nods.

She stands up then, and he's behind her, already helping her with her coat. Barry Allen, always the gentleman, and she can't help it, the smile is there, amused and affectionate.

"Thanks," she says, sliding her hands beneath her hair to free it from the collar. It falls on her shoulders and she looks up.

She gets a smile from him.

Suddenly, she's struck with the realization of just how tall he is; really, really tall. But she knows that, doesn't she? And wow, his eyes are so green, and blue too, and so bright. Then, another odd slip of a moment where she feels like she's never seen him before. But she's quick to scold herself, because seriously, what _absurd_ thoughts those are. Really, what an absolutely laughable notion, never seeing Barry before. A total, total nonsense that is. She knows his features as well as her own.

Where does this duffy stuff come from, jeez. And yet, yet there's _some_ truth in the ridiculous.

She shakes her head.

"What?" he asks, bemused.

"Nothing," she says, picking her bag, almost blushing. "I was just -" she pauses, considering telling him the truth for a moment.

"What?" he asks again, looking at her expectantly. And she sees it, sees the hope sliding into his gaze, thinly veiled hope and longing and, and -

Her throat is dry. She tries to swallow. Something pulls at her and she has to look away.

"Nothing." She shakes her head. "Nothing." And then, adding, "Shall we?"

They walk to the door in silence. She can feel him watching her.

There's nothing she wouldn't do for him.

He opens the door for her. His hand is on her back. She is _aware_ of his hand on her back. And how it falls.

.

.

.

.

.

Iris would move mountains for Barry, she would swim across the oceans and slay dragons and do all those things knights do in _those_ kinds of stories, she really would. It makes her almost impossibly sad knowing that she can't give him what he wants most of all.

.

.

.

.

.

She exits on the curb first.

.

.

.

.

.

She turns her gaze up at him. She can't give him herself. Her heart skips with a _yet. _She doesn't catch it. The city is too loud. Her eyes burn.

.

.

.

.

.

What happens next is kinda blurry.

Iris thinks maybe, yes, she took a step back only to find herself in a way of two, or was it three, boys flying on skateboards and, before she could blink, she's being pushed into Barry's chest.

It's a strange moment, then, where she looks up and finds herself watching him with an odd, new sense of curiosity.

Something moves between them. She tastes unpredictability. Something moves inside her too, hitching her breath. She realizes his hand is wrapped around her waist. He's looking down at her; there's a blush sketching itself across his cheeks but his gaze is steady. There are dim, dim whispers in her head.

He looks away. Or is it her?

Her heart is beating a _little_ too fast. Her skin feels a _little_ too warm.

She backs away.

Her bag fell from her shoulder and is now hanging from her elbow.

"I should really head back," she says, adjusting her bag and pointing behind her with her hand.

"Yeah," he nods, taking a step back. "Yeah, me too. I-" he bumps into a middle aged couple, tripping with _oh sorry. _Iris can't help but laugh softly, affection curling warmly inside her chest. "I'll - I'll see you."

There's a wave too, from him. She smiles. "Yeah."

.

.

.

.

.

Iris stands though, watching him disappear into the crowd, with a quiet sense of understanding that things have changed, and between them, things are changing _still_. It's something she can't escape. Sure, she can try and drag her feet but she can't stop it. There's no going back, she understands that too. He told her he loved her. There's just no way of coming back from that.

She sighs and falls into a vague, hazy realization that his confession opened something for her. What though, well that, Iris is extremely hesitant about touching.

.

.

.

.

.

When she can't see him anymore she turns and starts walking.

Things are shaky still, and she is only little less overwhelmed with unfocused thoughts and feelings flying in all directions; but she does feel better. It's not that things are suddenly easier or clearer, far from it really, but this was a step, a first awkward step in moving forward. And for now, she thinks, for now that's enough.

.

.

.

.

.

.

So. What happens next you wonder?

.

.

.

.

.

Well -

.

.

.

.

.

The fun is in not knowing. Or so they say.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**the end.**

**[except not really. because you know, this is only the beginning.]**

.

.

.

* * *

**thank you for reading.  
**

.

**if you can, please let me know what you think.**


End file.
